


Over Again

by Renne



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mutual Pining, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4541280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an unfortunate run in with slavers on the Wounded Coast, Hawke is presumed dead by her friends. Unable to tolerate post-rebellion Kirkwall without her, Varric allows himself to be dragged off to tell his story to the Divine, and a trapped Hawke discovers that it's up to her to save herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meggannn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggannn/gifts).



> The presumed dead trope is so my jam, so it was a joy to get this prompt (which was excellently broad as well as nicely specific - you give good prompts, Megan <3). Many thanks to Mel and Beardsley for their invaluable betaing to catch my seriously ridiculous typos. Any remaining errors are my own.

"Where is the Champion?" Seeker Pentaghast ground out the words between clenched teeth as she loomed over him, hands braced on the arms of the chair. 

Varric had dragged this out long enough, storyteller enough to know when his grand finish was due. "Well Seeker, that's just the thing," he said, his voice heavy with grief. "The Champion of Kirkwall is _dead_."

-

Hawke shivered in the hole. She ached all over, and when she explored with her fingers, she could feel the gash along her ribcage still oozing blood. If she didn't eventually bleed to death - which was only slight hyperbole, Hawke was sure - she was going to die of exposure in the bottom of this filthy, freezing black pit. 

The sons of mongrels hadn't even left her with a shift to protect her from the cold and the dirt. She was really going to hurt some people when she got out of there.

"Are you hungry yet, little _Champion_?" a high, mocking voice echoed around the cave, followed by a cackling laugh. 

Ignore them, she told herself firmly, shivering. If she couldn't get out, she would still be okay. Though it went against her grain, she knew her friends would be here to rescue her soon. 

And they'd never let her live it down.

-

"Have you heard from Hawke, yet?" Aveline asked, shoulder propped against the frame of Varric's door. "I thought she was meant to be back over a week ago."

Varric took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "And hello to you too, Guard-Captain." 

"I'm worried, Varric. You know what she's been like since… everything."

Everything. Yes, what a nicely vague euphemism for 'one of our best friends demolished half the city and everything is completely fucked'. He sighed. "I know, Aveline, but she said it might take longer to ensure Bethany is safe. And you know she's out looking for signs of Anders, too."

Aveline scowled. "I know."

"Aveline--"

"I'm worried about her, is all," Aveline said. Her arms were folded across her chest and she had that set-jaw bullheaded look on her face that told him that he'd be sending out messengers sooner rather than later, because they both knew that keeping on the Guard-Captain's good side when he was running all kinds of shady deals out of the rebuilt Hanged Man was in his best interests. 

Varric leaned back in his seat. "I'll put some feelers out," he said in a conciliatory tone, "see if anyone's heard any news."

"Good." Aveline straightened. "Oh, and Varric?"

"Yes, Aveline?" 

" _Do_ let me know the moment you hear back about where she is? I don't want to have to come back down here again if I can help it."

"The new Hanged Man not to your liking?"

She glanced around his rooms. "It's… not the same."

Varric knew exactly what she meant. While Aveline, once she'd taken up her post as Guard-Captain, hadn't exactly been the kind of regular here that Hawke and the rest of the crew were, she would still turn up on occasion, with her guardsmen or with Hawke. The old Hanged Man had had something of a welcoming air, even to the law-keepers of Kirkwall when they ventured into Lowtown outside of patrols. 

Post-uprising Kirkwall wasn't nearly as friendly. 

"I'll let you know what I find out," Varric said and he found he meant it. Aveline was a good friend to Hawke; they may have had their ideological differences, but escaping the Blight together had forged a bond between the two women that sometimes Varric didn't understand.

"Thank you," Aveline said and then she was gone. 

The next day Varric sent for one of the Merchant Guild runners. He knew the vague path that Hawke had been intending to take to spirit her sister out of Kirkwall. That she'd kept it secret from him too, well, he didn't mind. Bethany's safety was more important than his ego. As always, he'd just offered Hawke any help needed, no questions asked.

He didn't hear anything from his sources for almost a week. The Merchant Guild could be thoroughly distracting when it came down to it, but the itch in the back of his mind - where _was_ Hawke? - wouldn't leave him alone. 

"Messere, where are you going?"

"Uh," Varric said, rubbing at his forehead. He'd stood up without even thinking. "I have to go," he said, "I just remembered I have... A delivery. At the Hanged Man. An important delivery." He scraped up his papers and shoved them into his satchel. 

Hawke really should be back by now.

And he didn't just think so because he missed her stupid, beautiful face so much his chest hurt. She should be back. Aveline was right to be worried; Hawke should be back by now and she hadn't been the same since Orsino and Meredith and Anders. 

There was an urchin waiting for him when he returned to the Hanged Man. 

"Messere Tethras?" the girl said, rubbing at her runny nose with the back of her hand. "Y' asked for news of the Champion? I been speaking w' one of the beggars up Hightown near the mercenaries and _'e_ said they been talkin' 'bout a horse they found out on the Coast, said it 'ere was yer Champion's horse."

"Her horse?"

"I ain't seen it mysel', messere, but that's what 'e said." She held out her hand expectantly. 

-

It was hard to keep track of time in the hole. Her captors seemed to come at random times - especially the man with the high voice, the leader of the group, she figured - to taunt her about her predicament, to tease her with food, the smell of which made her stomach both turn as well as growl. 

She thought she could hear water somewhere in one of the walls. This far down the sandy Wounded Coast dirt gave way to rock and clay, sticky against her skin, but there was water, somewhere. 

Hawke inched along the floor, her hand stretched out in front. The pit was irregularly shaped, larger than she thought, the floor sloping up into walls of rock she could dislodge with her fingers. Could she dig her way out? She explored the floor of the pit carefully, wincing as she knelt on a sharp rock, trying to find anything she could use. 

_There_. Something - a stick--

No. She ran her hands along it and knew what it was. It was bone. A human thighbone, probably, smooth under her fingers. If she didn't do what they wanted, would they leave her here to die, too? Hawke tried to think. They'd been slavers, hadn't they? They'd said they were slavers. They'd known who she was. 

The Champion of Kirkwall was a grand prize, so why had they dumped her in this pit? Were they trying to break her spirit before selling her to the highest bidder?

Maker, her head ached. 

Why hadn't anyone come for her?

-

There was a flicker of light as someone approached the pit, faint though, like it was a candle, not like the torches the slavers usually brought to blind her. "Hello? Are you - are you there?" she heard someone say in an urgent whisper. "I'm not supposed to be here, but… here, I saved you this!" 

There was a rustle and a thud near Hawke's feet. She inched across to where she heard the noise, carefully casting about until - ah! - she found a small parcel wrapped in grease paper and tied with string. When she untied it she found… bread. It was stale, but it was food, and without thinking she shoved it into her mouth, chewing desperately. Maker, she was so hungry.

Seconds later she spat it out, gagging and heaving. From above she heard a burst of familiar high-pitched laughter. "Enjoy your meal, little Champion!" 

Maferath's Betrayal had been baked right into the bread, and Hawke had shoved it into her mouth without a care like an idiot, Andraste's tits. What was wrong with her? 

She staggered to the tiny pool of water that had formed where she'd gouged a divot out of the clay wall, pressing her face into it, licking the water from the stone and spitting to try and clear her mouth. She could already feel the poison in the spasms in her limbs. 

-

Varric definitely hadn't been in love with Hawke the first time they'd slept together. He'd liked her, of course, a lot - they were best friends, after all, it went with the territory. He hadn't been in love with her the second time either, or the tenth time, the fiftieth, or, or...

The first time they'd slept together it had just been for a bit of fun. They'd both been drunk to high heaven; then Isabela stole some weed from a couple of local thugs passed out in the corner of the Hanged Man and it had all just seemed like a good time.The pirate woman had picked up a couple of Rivain sailors she'd apparently known from Seele and retired to her room with a bawdy laugh, leaving Hawke and Varric alone. 

In his rooms, in his bed. The window had been propped open, on a hot stinker of a Kirkwall summer night. The good ale had long run out by the time he and Hawke staggered up the stairs, Hawke leaning heavily on him, but it hadn't been unpleasant.

At the bed he'd tripped and fell over on top of Hawke, his dick half hard already, and shit, weed was never this potent with him. He apologised, because they weren't like that, _he was taken_ , just friends, _why was he so turned on by her, so unfair_ , but Hawke had laughed at him and grabbed his ass, wrapping her legs around his hips. "Come on, Varric," she'd said, laughing again before she kissed him. "What's a bit of fun between friends?" she added when she let him up for air.

He'd thought about it, he really had, as much as he could when he was flying higher than a kite and his dick was pressed up hard against her, separated by layers of fabric, and yeah, the thought of having sex with someone he liked seemed like a great idea. That she was easy on the eyes, had a wicked sense of humour and wanted to fuck him back didn't hurt either. 

Of course, all the intentions in the world could be in the right place, but drink and weed conspired against them. Rutting together slick and sweaty in the dark, until they both eventually passed out without relief. 

(The good sex came the next morning when it should have been awkward, when he'd crept from the bed to wash up and Hawke rolled over and grinned sleepily at him; he'd meant to say something reassuring that their friendship was still intact, that he wasn't freaking out and instead he'd said, "You know, we should try that again some time. I really wasn't at my best last night."

"Well, _I_ had nothing better to do today," Hawke said, holding out her hand to him.)

So, at some point between "Hi, the name's Varric Tethras," and "Have you heard from Hawke?" it turned out Varric had fallen completely and stupidly and irrevocably in love with their fearless, idiotic leader. 

He didn't realise this, of course, until it was too late - far too late, because Varric was nothing if not the King of Really Poor Timing, but he really should have realised at some point along the line that friends with benefits had turned into mutually exclusive not-even-about-sex-a-lot-of-the-time thing. They'd curl up in bed together more nights than not, even the nights without sex, Hawke offered advice on Varric's Merchant Guild business while Varric did the same for her Champion issues... 

At one point there had been a casual mention of flirtation with Anders, which Varric had - to his surprise - regretfully assumed would mean these good times of banging his best friend would come to an end, but in the end it never eventuated. Varric and Hawke never stopped sleeping together, and what really _had_ happened between Hawke and the mad apostate?

She never said anything, and so he never asked.

"Where did they say they found Hawke's horse?" Isabela asked.

Varric passed her the crude map. "Right at the end of this path," he said, jabbing his finger at the scrap of parchment. His stomach had been in a slow, nauseous roil ever since the mercenary captain had reluctantly shown him the saddle taken from the horse - clearly marked with both the Amell and Hawke family heraldry - and the saddlebags, full of Hawke's possessions. He knew her clothing, her maps, her eating utensils. 

It was Hawke's horse. 

There had been blood on the saddle. Not a lot, but enough. Enough that he was worried, that Isabela had forced him to tell her why he was worried, enough that they kept it from Merrill since she was fretful enough when he'd confessed he'd been unable to track Hawke down. 

"It doesn't make sense, though," Merrill said. "Why would she have been this far out here?"

"Maybe she was following up on news about Blondie?" Varric said, but it sounded unconvincing to his own ears. 

They were walking yet another path on the Wounded Coast, one that looked no different from any other, ending in a dead end at a bluff overlooking the island-dotted expanse of blue water. Somewhere near here a merc lookout had heard a horse's neigh and the jingle of a bridle. 

Then Merrill tripped over the corpse. 

-

Water dripped somewhere. It was interminable. She could scream just to hear her own voice.

Where was Varric? Aveline? Where was her heroic rescue?

Hawke shivered.

-

"Oh, Mythal," Merrill breathed, pressing her hand to her mouth. "Varric, please, tell me that's not..." She stopped with a sob. "That can't be Hawke."

Varric didn't have a weak stomach, but the corpse was really testing him. It had been mauled thoroughly by the damned wildlife on the Wounded Coast, but there was no one else it could be. Her armour hadn't protected her from her killers - more corpses were strewn around her and bared to the weather - any more than it had protected her body from the animals who'd stripped the flesh from her bones. 

"The whoresons killed her with her own knives," Isabela said in a low, furious voice. She reached down, gripping the handles of the daggers that were embedded side by side in Hawke's ribcage. She tugged, but the blades were firmly lodged between Hawke's ribs. 

Varric couldn't look away. Maker, even her _face_ was-- He pressed his hand to his mouth. "We gotta take her home. Give her a proper burial." He managed not to say 'what's left of her'. He was a little proud of that restraint. "Aveline… Fenris… they will want to know."

He'd have to send a letter to Bethany too, but how did he even start with that? How could he find the words to tell Bethany that her sister had died to keep her safe? 

How could he even find Bethany to send a letter to her at all?

His hands curled into fists. Hawke was gone. 

-

"Right," Hawke said to herself, because who else was there to talk to? "Looks like you're gonna have to do this all on your own." 

She pursed her lips, reaching out in the dark to touch her meagre possessions. Her thigh bone - or at least, a thigh bone that someone didn't need anymore. The shift she'd found with the few remaining bones (Hawke couldn't even smell the stink of it anymore, over the dirt and her own filth). A rock that fit easily into her palm, with a sharp edge like an axe head. The stale remnants of the poisoned bread. 

Not much to work with, but enough for Varric to make a tale, she thought. Varric. Where was he? Had these slavers hidden her so well even his extensive spy network couldn't find her?

She tried not to think about him any more than that. Like the look on his face when she left to take Bethany to safety. The soft look in his eyes that made her stomach clench and her heart pound because--

Well, she'd put it down to some bad crab stew. Hawke knew she shouldn't eat fish at the Hanged Man. She'd felt out of sorts when riding out of Kirkwall with Bethany - she didn't get hangovers, right, so it had to have been the stew - and it had absolutely nothing to do with the tightness in her chest when Varric had cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. He didn't tell her to be careful, because that wasn't who they were. 

But to Hawke it just felt… _wrong_ to ride out without him. 

She'd tried to remember how many times he hadn't gone with her over the years. A dozen, maybe, if that, out of hundreds of times. Even Bethany had picked up on it this time, and she hadn't even been with them for the better part of six years. 

Hawke took a deep breath. She'd get out of here herself then and find out why Varric didn't turn up. Hawke was sure he'd have a good story. 

He had to have. 

She cleared her throat. "Help me," she called weakly. "I'll do anything you want, you just have to let me out of here. I'm so hungry..."

-

" _Dead_?" the Seeker exclaimed. "How could she be dead? You're lying!"

Varric leaned forward in the chair. "I wish I was lying, Seeker. I... buried her with my own two hands." All Hawke's friends and loved ones had been there for the funeral, except Anders and Bethany. No one knew where Anders had gone, but Varric had sent a letter to Bethany when Aveline told him she knew where Bethany was. That Aveline knew more than Varric did, he didn't begrudge her the information. He trusted Hawke. 

Aveline and Hawke mightn't have seen eye to eye with a lot of things, but there was genuine love between the Hawke sisters and Aveline. Varric knew it wasn't that Hawke trusted Aveline more or him less. It was just how it was.

Not that it mattered now. Maker's breath, he missed her. He missed her so much it hurt. 

"No," the Seeker whispered, braced against the table. "It is over, then." She took a deep breath and let it out heavily. "We will take you to see Divine Justinia, she should hear your tale of what happened here."

"Do I get a choice?"

Seeker Pentaghast raised her head. "No," she said bluntly. "If your friend Anders didn't start the rebellion with his attack on the Chantry… If what you have said about the Knight-Commander Meredith and her abuses against the Circle mages is true, this is information the Divine will need to broker peace between the templars and the mages."

He never thought of himself as particularly sentimental, but Varric had found, since Hawke's death, this new, post-Circle-rebellion Kirkwall had become nearly intolerable. 

He was now staring down a way out. Sure, it would involve being dragged across Ferelden - travel, not his most favoured activity - but it was good enough. Like he even had a choice.

So he slouched back in the chair and gestured expansively. "Then by all means, Seeker. Let's go see your Divine."

-

Frankly, Hawke couldn't believe they bought it, in all honesty. Her acting skills were atrocious at the best of times unless it involved acting like herself, Varric always said. 

But they bought it in the end. 

She feigned sobbing as she heard them lower the rope ladder, adjusting her grip on the thigh bone. "I'm too weak to climb the ladder," she whined pathetically, when the one with the high-pitched voice commanded her to climb up. "The poison..."

She was pleased to hear they honestly believed she was as pathetic as she acted. Take that, Varric Tethras! Ha! She shifted her hands on the thigh bone and wished she had her daggers. They'd gotten lucky with her once - they wouldn't do it again. 

The bone broke on the first blow, because of course it did. That didn't mean it was bad news for Hawke though; the break turned the bone into two long, sharp knives and with that she was in her element. The one with the high-pitched voice hadn't come down into the pit, but she could hear him yelling over the commotion as she systematically slaughtered the three men sent down to get her.

She ducked under the gleam of a sword, driving her bone dagger up under the ribs of the last slaver.

"You'll still never get out, Champion," the last slaver screamed as the last of his men hit the earth. Hawke heard the slither and slap of the rope ladder hitting the ground. The coward hadn't even pulled the ladder back up, he'd just cut it free! 

No matter. She could work with this. She hadn't been able to dig hand or footholds into the walls with her bare hands, but she'd be able to use one of the slaver's swords as a shovel. And when she got to the top she'd find the last slaver and take her irritation out on his flesh.

Hawke picked up the torches the slavers had brought down to blind her with and jammed them in the clay, picking up the third to shed light on the corpses. Only one had any kind of armour; one had a pair of sturdy, plain daggers; the third had a pair of boots just Hawke's size. Good enough.

In a way she was glad the other one up top hadn't come down the ladder, too; fighting for her life against three of the slavers had drained what little energy she had, and she still needed to find her way out of the pit. 

Hawke just hoped he wouldn't be waiting for her at the top when she finally made it that far.

-

Hawke was exhausted by the time she reached the top. The pit couldn't have been more than, what? Two and a half, maybe three Hawkes deep? But between the ache in her gut and the throbbing pain in her side, she was shaking when she finally pulled herself over the lip, sprawling on the ground. 

The torch she'd thrown up was laying on the ground, but it gave her enough light to see the dark tunnel that lead off down one end of the cave. There was nothing around the pit, nothing but dirt and rock. 

Eventually Hawke pulled herself together enough to get to her knees, and then to her feet. She might have felt like something scraped off the bottom of her shoe, but when she settled the slaver's two daggers in her hands she felt like she could take on anything. It was easier, now she was out of the pit, now she was clothed and armed, to think there might be an end to this nightmare. 

The slaver's cave network was larger than Hawke imagined. There had been no sign of the leader of the slavers as she'd crept through the caves, stopping only when she'd found a supply cave, stuffed to the brim with barrels of freshwater and cases of preserved foodstuff. The food reminded her of the sea journey from Ferelden to the Free Marches - probably supplies for the slavers when they sent their captives off by sea. 

It was only because she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye that Hawke was able to duck the slaver's sword. She tucked into a roll, grunting when she hit the ground, and came up with her daggers in hand. He lunged at her and Hawke twisted aside before lashing out with her dagger at his belly. 

"You're no Champion," the slaver said, barely able to arch out of the way of her dagger. The gash in her side - split open again from climbing out of the pit - crippled her reach. That swipe would have gutted him on a good day.

"Says who? Says you?" Hawke said scornfully. It was easy enough not to sound breathless herself. She might have been exhausted and really not in the mood for witty banter, but enough fighting with her friends had her well versed in being able to run off at the mouth while fighting for her life. She dodged a second lunge and her dagger sliced along the underside of the slaver's arm.

He hissed and fell back, switching his sword to the other hand. "A true Champion would never have been captured."

"You knocked me on the head," Hawke said, outraged. " _From behind_." In a real fight she'd have taken them all on and won with one hand tied behind her back. She'd have mopped the floor with them. She'd have--

Hawke feinted a stab to the slaver's left. It was all too predictable, really, she thought, as he twisted to avoid her blade, only to take her other knife in the throat. He fell back, jerking the dagger from her hand, hitting the floor with a clatter.

"A true Champion wouldn't do this, either," Hawke said, before stomping hard on his face. The snap of bone was frighteningly satisfying. "But I won't tell anyone if you don't." She reached down and wrenched the dagger from his throat, his hands twitching as he bled out. 

Hawke staggered to the barrel she'd been drinking from when he'd come upon her, cupping water into her mouth with her hand, before eventually pushing away from it and straightening. She had to get out of here. She needed daylight and fresh air--

\--It felt like she'd been walking forever, through the twisting tunnels. When Hawke saw light ahead, she didn't get her hopes up. It was probably just daylight seeping through cracks in the roof above, again. 

But then she stumbled out of the cave into sunshine. A sandy path dropped away from her feet, and she could see the sparkling blue of the Waking Sea spreading out in front of her. 

"Oh, thank the Maker," Hawke said and promptly collapsed face-first in the dirt.

-

It wasn't that Varric was the kind of prisoner in shackles and caged up like a vicious animal. Oh, Seeker Pentaghast wasn't that uncivilised. Oh a day he was allowed to progress under his own steam, and had the run of the camp when they stopped of a night, but they both made no pretense that the guard outside his tent of a night was there for his own safety. 

A day out from the Temple of Sacred Ashes and Varric was sore in places he never even knew it was possible to be sore in. They'd picked up horses - a pony for the dwarf, of course - in a village a week before, and Varric, well... Varric Tethras was no rider. Most dwarves weren't. They were built too close to the ground, for starters, to be comfortable with it. 

He sidled over to Seeker Pentaghast. 

"How far to go now, Seeker?" he asked, though he well knew the answer to the question already. Even if he didn't, they could see the peak with the temple on it from the other in daylight. 

He could hear her breath hiss between her teeth. The other one, Sister Nightingale - and Varric was happy to pretend he didn't recognise her from Kirkwall and the threat of an Exalted March - placed her hand on the Seeker's wrist.

The sun was just cresting the Frostback Mountains when they packed up camp and moved out. Varric had barely mounted his pony when there was a blinding flash from the direction of the Temple. 

Then the world turned inside out. 

-

There was something strange about Kirkwall; something odd in the air that she could tell from the soldiers milling about the landward gates. Hawke could see the Starkhaven sigil on their armour and cloaks. Sebastian. 

What was he doing at Kirkwall, and with soldiers too? 

Hawke took the Darktown entry instead - she had no interest in being recognised, in being marched into some audience with the Prince of Starkhaven and whoever it was who was running Kirkwall this week. Oh, Aveline did her best as Captain of the Guard to keep the city ticking over, but she didn't make the big choices. There'd be some Hightown suck up making nice with Sebastian who would rope her into doing the same. 

She really hated being Champion, sometimes.

The moment she left the dank sewers into Darktown, however, she realised there were more problems than the Prince of Starkhaven. Even in Darktown the rumour mill was in overdrive; an explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and Divine Justinia was dead. Everyone who was there for the peace talks was dead.

Betrayal, some whispered. A mage had blown up the Kirkwall Chantry, so it had to be a mage who'd blown up the peace talks too. No, it was a templar plot, someone else said. Their sister was in the Ferelden Circle, and smuggled letters said the templars were planning a slaughter to blame on the mages.

Either way, it sounded like more trouble was brewing than Sebastian. Hawke lingered with her hand on the ladder to the secret entrance into her mansion for a moment before stepping away. She'd find Varric at the Hanged Man, find out what was really going on. A bath and a change of clothing could wait a few more hours.

She sniffed her shirt and pulled a face. She'd fit in at the Hanged Man well like this.

Except Varric wasn't in the Hanged Man.

Varric wasn't even in Kirkwall.

None of the regulars were in the tavern and the man behind the bar was a stranger. No one recognised the filthy, bloodstained woman asking questions about the dwarf as the Champion of Kirkwall, instead she was shoved out the door like the Hanged Man didn't serve people like her every day.

She was okay with it though; Varric wasn't there, his rooms had been shut up, there was nothing for her in the Hanged Man. He wouldn't have left her a message in the tavern, anyway. Her next stop was the Viscount's Keep.

That she needed to be a little cleaner for. 

-

Aveline wasn't in Kirkwall. She'd been sent to Starkhaven to meet with Sebastian, according to her own diary which Hawke had lifted after she'd broken into the Guard-Captain's office. Why that meant his soldiers were outside the city, Hawke couldn't be sure. There'd been that threat against Kirkwall when Hawke had refused to kill Anders for blowing up the Chantry but Hawke hadn't taken that all that seriously. Sebastian's ire had been up because his mentor had been killed and the Chantry reduced to rubble.

Despite being on the side of the mages, Hawke couldn't agree with Anders' actions, but even with that she thought Sebastian's urging to stick a knife in Anders while everyone's blood was still hot was... ridiculous. Excessive. 

If that was why Sebastian's soldiers were outside Kirkwall, Hawke was sure Aveline had it all in hand; there might not be a Viscount in the Keep in Kirkwall, but if there was anyone running this place with an iron fist it was Aveline. That was probably why Aveline had been sent to Starkhaven in the first place: to give Sebastian not an insignificant piece of her mind.

Another note in Aveline's diary - encoded, of course - told Hawke that Bethany had sent word she was safe; they'd organised that encoded messages should be sent through the Guard-Captain's office, and Aveline would ensure Hawke got them as soon as possible. Aveline received messages from all over the city-state and beyond; it wouldn't be unusual for her to receive anything. 

Hawke, on the other hand, knew no one outside of Kirkwall, bar anyone who may have survived the Blight in Ferelden. Not where Bethany was. 

Further information in the diary, because of _course_ Aveline kept tabs on all their friends, told Hawke that she knew Varric had been kidnapped by the Chantry agents and her investigation on where he'd been taken - from Hawke's own Hightown mansion too! - had them taking him to a village in the Frostbacks, and from there to be delivered to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Aveline's notes had it that there was a conclave to be held there, between Divine Justinia and the templars and the mages to broker a peace deal.

Haven.

Hawke had no idea exactly where that might be, but it wouldn't be too difficult to get her hands on maps to answer that question. She'd get her spare daggers and armour from upstairs, get a boat and a horse and go and fetch her dwarf back. 

In that order.

-

The sky was green. It was green and there were rocks in it, hanging in the… the _tear_ in the sky, a hole, big and green like a portal through to… to something that Varric couldn't even comprehend, and the first, stupid thought he has when he came to was: _I wish Hawke was here to see this._

She'd love it, the stupid woman. She never had it in her to be scared of most of the things a reasonable person would be scared of. Like dragons, duelling one on one with the Arishok, or glowing green holes in the sky. 

Her lack of fear had certainly given him backbone more than once, he had to admit.

Maker's balls, maybe if Hawke were here right now he'd feel a little less like pissing himself in terror. 

"Get up." It was Sister Nightingale, her hand under his arm to help him to his feet. She was covered in dust and - and soot... No, everything was covered in dust and soot. She looked away from him, to the west, towards the Temple, and he followed her gaze. 

The Temple was--

The Temple--

The top of the mountain where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had stood was gone and green light from the roiling hole in the sky speared down to where the Temple had once stood. 

"Where did the Temple go?" Varric asked in horror. 

-

If Hawke thought she'd been sick of demons after the Kirkwall rebellion, it had nothing on how she felt now as she scrambled up an embankment, clutching her saddlebags to her shoulder. 

Less than three days before she'd lost her horse to the damned things; exhaustion meant she made stupid mistakes and she'd lead the poor nag almost directly into one of those green rifts springing up all over the Frostbacks. 

The horse hadn't stood a chance and it had only been through sheer luck that Hawke had even escaped herself. 

The green light in the sky she'd first seen weeks ago had to be responsible, she thought. A day out from Jader in the passage from Kirkwall, Hawke had been sitting on deck, repairing fishing nets for the boat's captain, when she'd noticed it, faint and distant, reflecting off the clouds. When Hawke had pointed it out to the captain, he told her it had appeared a few weeks before, just before the rumours first circulated that Divine Justinia had been murdered. 

And now, on the Ferelden side of the Waking Sea? Demons.

Demons everywhere. Every time she turned her back? Demons. Luckily most of them spawned from the rifts, and could only chase her so far, but there'd been a few, not tied to a rift like most, that had made life painful. Hawke wasn't a big fan of running away, but discretion was the better part of valour and stealthing in on a demon to backstab it was all well and good but only when it didn't have a couple of friends hanging about to back it up. 

So she ran, because it was much easier to kill demons when you had your trusty dwarf and his quite frankly incredible crossbow Bianca guarding your back. 

-

Hawke expected more of Haven. 

Well, that wasn't true, she'd expected less of Haven since she'd been sure it was where that creepy green light in the sky led to, until the peasant who'd finally put her onto the right road had told her that a trader had told _him_ that it was what was left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. 

That the Divine Justinia and all the Chantry sisters who'd been at the Temple had been killed. 

That _everyone_ who'd been at the Temple had been killed.

"And Haven?" she'd asked around the sudden taste of metal in her mouth. Her stomach had dropped. "What of Haven?" There was an Inquisition at Haven, he'd told her, lead by someone called the Herald of Andraste, who had been led from of the breach by Andraste herself, when the Temple exploded. Her divine hand on Thedas, there to save them all from duplicitous templars and mages; their civil war had to be responsible for the explosion, because what else could it have been?

That Hawke didn't care about. If Haven was intact, maybe Varric was safe there. Maybe he hadn't been wiped off the face of Thedas by whatever in the Maker's name had happened at the Temple. 

"I'm going to do it," she told her horse resolutely, only hours before the poor thing had become demon-feed. "If he's still alive when I get there, I'm going to tell him how I feel about him." (The horse had ignored her, continuing its slow, steady plod in the direction the peasant had pointed her.)

Haven, when she finally reached it, wasn't the grand home for this _Inquisition_ she'd been imagining. It was a tiny village by the Frostbacks, with most of its defences, right down to the billeting of the soldiers, outside the wall. There were trebuchets, at least. Stone gates minding the passes and she could see they'd made an effort to reinforce the walls...

Maybe Hawke had judged too much too fast. It couldn't have been easy for this... Inquisition to break away from the Chantry and all their gold that could be used for things like troops, equipment and, yes, suitable defences.

She managed to make her way through the soldiers' camp to the gate in the wall before she was finally stopped and asked to state her business. 

_I've come to rescue Varric Tethras,_ she could have said. _It's going to be very dashing and heroic._

Except she still wasn't quite sure if Varric was still a prisoner - oh, it was certain he'd left Kirkwall in chains, but Hawke knew her dwarf. If he wasn't able to talk his way out of the chains he'd resort to his more nefarious skills and just pick the damned lock. 

And to be honest, this whole Inquisition and its whole "us against the world and also that giant green hole in the sky" vibe smacked of the kind of thing that would appeal to Varric's storyteller side, even if the danger did not. That Hawke knew from experience: she'd given him an out a dozen times when it came to her own adventures, but he'd laughed at her like she was a fool each time, and stuck to her side like glue. 

Hawke knew Varric would make it a heroic story, regardless of the truth. He'd done it to her, after all. 

She wondered where Varric thought she'd been this whole time. Him being a prisoner of the Chantry - and in her own home too, how rude - explained why he hadn't been able to stage a daring rescue. Aveline's diary had Isabela taking Fenris and Merrill to Rivain while she was away taking Bethany to safety, that made sense too. And with Aveline sent as an emissary to Starkhaven - oh, Hawke would have given a whole limb to be a fly on the wall for those discussions - well... there really had been no one there to rescue her. 

Not that she'd needed it in the end. She was perfectly capable of rescuing herself. Probably for the best, she thought, wouldn't do for the Champion of Kirkwall to need to be rescued. 

And now she was going to stage her own daring rescue. Maybe. She'd be dashing doing it, either way. 

"I've come to join the Inquisition," she said. Inspired!

The guard looked at her critically. The cloak she'd picked up along the way was filthy and ragged from her travels - and demons - and her armour looked cobbled together, though it was the finest made armour she'd ever owned. 

Varric had gifted it to her, of course, always with an eye to her safety, even when - especially when - Hawke didn't seem to care. She'd been proven stupid to think the Champion's mantle could keep her safe, and unlike the Champion's mantle, Hawke knew by the very nature of this armour she looked... capable at best. A less than kindly soul - or, well, Varric - would have suggested disreputable, as had been his very intent. "Your other armour's nice enough, but you should look like a rogue, too, Hawke," he'd said with a grin. "Get a bit of Lowtown in that Hightown you've been cultivating."

He'd made it too easy for her, really, since they were naked in her bed at the time. She'd pushed him flat and straddled his hips. "How about we get started on getting a bit of Lowtown in me now?" she'd asked with a grin and Varric had laughed, his hands settling on her hips as he looked up at her fondly.

(Hawke had never bothered to examine her feelings for Varric back then. When it came to risk versus reward she knew where she stood, and losing wasn't a thing Hawke did, if she could help it. She had lost too much already.)

The guard grunted. "S'pose beggars can't be choosers," she said sourly. "And we can always do with more scouts."

Hawke bit back her snide remark. It didn't matter that they thought she was a no good scoundrel, only suited to scouting. That wasn't what she was there for. "Anything to help the cause," she said, aiming for eager. The way the other guard squinted at her meant she'd probably slightly overshot the mark and landed somewhere closer to 'borderline insane'.

Varric alway did accuse her of overacting. 

"Go and see Sister Nightingale in the Chantry. She'll have a job for you." The guard waved her on through the gate and she picked up her saddlebags, slinging them over her shoulder even as she fought the urge to loosen the knife in the sheath on her thigh. Hawke might have a tendency to overact, but she'd also developed a finely honed sense of 'there's some bullshit going on here' and either the Inquisition really was that screwed they'd accept any seedy looking rabble off the beaten track, or this was a trick. 

The last thing Hawke expected was to pass through the gate and see Varric standing right there. 

"Oi, you can't stop there," someone bellowed behind her and Hawke jumped aside as a man pushing a full hand cart scowled at her. 

"Sorry," she said, ducking out of the way of the cart.

When she turned back Varric was gone. 

-

Varric was tired. 

He had to be.

Because if it wasn't tiredness then something else had to be terribly, horribly wrong with him, otherwise why else would he be hallucinating Hawke standing there, in the middle of Haven, when he'd left her in a grave in Kirkwall. 

He'd thought about her a lot - every day, all the time, too much - since he'd lost her. Thought about what a fool he'd been (told Bianca what a fool he'd been and his damn crossbow had just sat there _smugly_ , before snapping a string the very next day as if to punish him) and wished - not for the first time - that dwarves could dream, because then at least he might…

He might become one of those horrendous cliches in his romance serial.

Yet he'd have given his entire right arm to see Hawke's face again, that was the truth of it, even in a dream.

He peered around the edge of his tent, watching the woman who'd reminded him of Hawke stride away. Maker's teeth, she even moved like Hawke. 

He hesitated a moment before, feeling a bit like a louse, he slunk after her, curiosity getting the better of him. Varric figured that once he saw her face and it proved his imagination was doing overtime - and who'd look like Hawke anyway? Even Bethany, though clearly Hawke's sister, had taken more after their mother - he'd be able to forget about this woman. 

It wasn't like he had to talk to her. Just prove to his imagination that it wasn't Hawke and that she didn't actually look like Hawke at all, then he could get back to the business of being a merchant prince saving the world on the side. Or saving the world and being a merchant prince on the side. Either way.

The woman paused near the tavern; she looked like she was looking for something. Or someone. She scrubbed her hand over her face in a gesture so familiar and so impossible, Varric's mouth went dry.

When she turned in his direction time seemed to slow. Then:

"Varric!" 

-

Hawke wasn't exactly the sentimental type, but she'd never been happier to see someone in her life. She just didn't expect the colour to drain out of Varric's face when he saw her. "Hawke. You're alive." His eyes were wider than she'd ever seen them before.

That wasn't the kind of 'pleased to see her' reaction she'd been anticipating. She'd been expecting… joy, for starters, not shock. Maybe some kissing. Maybe a lot of kissing, if she was honest. Maybe something to… to show that maybe he felt what she was feeling. Or at least to show he'd missed her. 

...He had missed her, right?

Instead he was looking at her like she'd risen from the grave. Which was stupid because she'd been captured, not dead, and Varric was Varric so he had to know that. "Of course, I'm alive," Hawke said. "And no thanks to you, Serah Tethras, I had to save myself. Speaking of saving, that's what I came here to do to you. Save you, I mean. From the Chantry. It was going to be very heroic, you know, and I thought you might even swoon."

"Save--" Varric shook his head. "Hawke, what-- you were--" He stopped, taking a deep breath. He looked rattled, like an unassailable truth he'd known turned out to be completely false. It reminded Hawke of the way he'd looked when his brother had betrayed him. What in Andraste's name could Hawke have possibly done to warrant that look? 

He reached out, hesitated - he _hesitated_ , what was she even meant to think about that? - before touching her hand. "Come with me, I - I don't want to have this conversation here like this. Just… act like you're not you. Hawke. The Champion, I mean."

"Do I ever?" 

"Right. Act like yourself," Varric said and huffed a soft laugh - a noise Hawke had never been so glad to hear in her life, so maybe everything hadn't gone completely wrong - and lead her through the village, a careful, careless distance away, like she was a messenger or a source, or someone unsavoury that the Inquisition would expect a dwarf like Varric Tethras to associate with. 

Hawke slouched insouciantly after him. 

-

If there was one thing Varric Tethras very rarely ever was, it was 'confused'. He didn't deal in being confused. It was his business to know what was going on at all times, and for these things going on at all times to make sense. He traded in information, and information meant that there was rarely anything to be confused about in his life. 

He'd been burned, after all, when his brother betrayed him, leaving him and Hawke and Fenris and Isabela deep under the earth to die, all for the lust for gold and a red lyrium idol. 

While it hadn't made sense why Bartrand had done it at the time, Varric found his answers in the end. And thanks to Bartrand, Varric had become very good at making sure similarly perplexing things wouldn't happen.

But this, now: Hawke standing in front of him looking tired and worn and beautiful and _alive_... okay, that made no sense to him at all.

"Come on in, Hawke," he said, pulling aside the tent flap and ushering her into his humble abode. He wanted to touch her again, as if to prove to himself she really was there. But he'd hesitated before and seen the hurt in her eyes. He didn't want to do that again. 

"Nice tent," she said, peering around. 

It was nowhere near like his rooms in the Hanged Man. There was a brazier in the corner because Haven was infinitely colder than Kirkwall, for starters, but he could see in her soft smile that she still found something familiar about it. The tiny table with its neat pile of papers, maybe, the chair and the inkpot and quill, his reading glasses resting on top of a half finished letter to Aveline, of all people. Bianca, serviced and racked in the stand by the bed within easy reach, just in case. 

He watched Hawke gently run her fingers across the edge of the table, then reach out and touch his glasses. "Aveline was in Starkhaven last I heard," she murmured. 

"So I've been told."

Hawke perched on the edge of his bed. He wanted to sit beside her and pull her into his arms, but the way she was sitting, all tucked in on herself… he didn't know if she'd welcome that from him at all. 

Varric's heart pounded just looking at her. It had taken her death for him to realise the full extent of his feelings for her and now that he had her back he was terrified of messing it up. It had been easy when she was gone, to think about all that could have been but now never would. A fantasy world he'd concocted as he'd been dragged - willingly, yes, but still - from Kirkwall to Haven; it would be his new magnum opus. Not a trashy romance serial, but the story of a human hero and the merchant prince dwarf who loved her. Heavily plagiarised from his previous greatest work, the _Tale of the Champion_ , of course, but that was to be expected.

He sat down instead on the chair at the table. Still barely an arm's length away from her, but it might as well have been an ocean.

"Right," she said. "Do you mind telling me why you're so surprised I'm alive?"

-

Hawke didn't mean to sound so aggressive. 

"Hawke," Varric started, before pausing, his eyes sliding away from hers. He paused for so long, Hawke almost thought he'd forgotten how to talk. Eventually he met her gaze again. "We found your body," he said tightly. "Or what we all thought was your body."

Hawke blinked.

"She looked like you, or at least what was left of her did. Hawke, we all thought you were dead. She had your daggers and was wearing your armour. It didn't even occur to think it mightn't have been you - I mean, exposure and the Wounded Coast wildlife had… removed her identifying characteristics, but she was your size and had hair like yours… she had all your things, what were we meant to think?"

That explained a lot, Hawke realised. Why none of her friends had come for her. Why no one in Kirkwall had recognised the Champion when she'd returned. Hawke had been pleased not to be recognised at the time, but if they all thought she was dead, no one would assume that the grubby woman who'd slipped back into the city through Darktown was the Champion of Kirkwall. Not when she usually swanned around the city in her fancy armour with her friends generally making mischief and a lot of noise, much to Aveline's annoyance.

Hawke slumped. No wonder Varric had looked at her like she'd risen from the grave. As far as he was concerned, she had. "I was captured looking for signs of Anders on the Wounded Coast. That message I'd received about him before I'd left with Bethany? It was a trap. Slavers, and they wanted the Champion of Kirkwall." Hawke snorted. "But it turned out the real Champion of Kirkwall was too much of a pain in the arse for them. I know you'll be shocked, but they thought with a bit of a beating I'd be biddable enough - a real performing monkey for some Tevinter magister with more gold than brains. Turns out the real me wasn't much to their liking." 

She could see the realisation dawning in Varric's eyes. "They had another woman there, of a similar size and build, and tried to pass her off as you," he said.

"Exactly. Turns out the _Tale of the Champion_ has a pretty good description of my height and build. And hair colour. Skin tone. Eye colour. You know, all the things that make me really identifiable."

Varric at least had the grace to look a bit abashed, though he didn't comment on it. Instead he said, "Someone must have come across her with the slavers, thought she was you and since she couldn't fight back, killed them all…"

"They killed the slavers too?" When Varric nodded, Hawke laughed but she wasn't at all amused. "That explains why there were only four of them left to keep an eye on me, then." 

"Did they… did they hurt you? Are you okay?"

Hawke looked away. "They tried to rough me up a bit and I broke one of them's arm and another's nose. I think they were going to starve it out of me." She shrugged. "It was weeks ago now, Varric, everything has healed." Well, mostly. The scar on her side still ached, but given the state it was in when she arrived at Kirkwall, she counted herself lucky. She'd seen people die from lesser wounds and the supplies Anders had left at the Hightown mansion had been valuable. 

Varric leaned forward, the short distance between the chair and the bed, and touched her hand, much like he had when he'd first seen her. Like he was making sure she was still there. "We honestly thought you were dead, Hawke," he said, his voice rough like she'd never heard before. "We all did. Isabela and Merrill were with me when we found you - the woman we thought was you; that's why Isabela took Merrill with her to Rivain. Daisy couldn't stand being in Kirkwall anymore. For a blood mage, I think we all forget how soft-hearted she is. And for her to think you'd died like that… I had Aveline send a letter the Bethany, too. Shit, we'll need to let her know you're actually alive--"

"It's not your fault," Hawke said. "You thought it was me. We can send another letter and tell Bethany I'm fine. I can always go and see her and she'll know." It was true, and while those moments of Bethany's heartbreak could never be erased, Hawke knew Bethany would understand why Varric had sent the message he did.

"I know what I thought, but I should have made sure before I told her. But the body we found…" The look on his face was both miserable and angry. She knew Varric cared for her, but the anguish was something Hawke had never seen from him like this before. Not even when she'd been beaten within an inch of her life by the Arishok. Then Hawke remembered what she'd told her horse. Varric, like this… she could maybe believe he cared for her too, the way she did for him. She should tell him.

"Varric--"

Except he continued blindly, like he hadn't even heard her. The look on his face was distant, like he was back there in on the Wounded Coast, looking at a body he thought was Hawke's, not here in the tent with her. "The body had been out in the open for too long, so we couldn't wait. We rushed the burial and Maker's balls, Hawke, if I'd just _checked_ we would have known it wasn't you. I'd have never left you in that pit at the mercy of those slavers, if I'd known--"

"Varric," Hawke interrupted desperately. She had to say it before she lost her nerve. "Varric, stop, I have to tell you something--"

"I love you, Hawke," Varric blurted. He suddenly looked like a startled deer, seconds from being flushed out of the undergrowth, as if he'd just realised what he'd said.

"I--" Hawke stopped. She could see the slow flush crawling up his cheeks. "Well," she said helplessly. "Way to steal my thunder." She slouched back against his pillows with a huff. "Here I was, coming half the way across Thedas to rescue you, and you're not even a prisoner--"

"Hawke--"

" _Here I was_ ," she repeated, raising her voice to drown him out should he continue. "Coming all this way to tell you how I felt about you too, and you-- you're all… 'Hawke, I love you.' It's like you already knew."

"What?"

"Maker's teeth, Varric, I've been in love with you since - since - since, I don't know, since some silver-tongued dwarf swept this stupid Ferelden refugee girl off her feet and made her feel like she could be anything!" Hawke was shouting and she didn't know why. He'd just told her he loved her, too. She should be ecstatic. "I'd been in Kirkwall a year - a _year_ , Varric - and it wasn't meant to be my home, I thought that it'd never be my home, ever, I just wanted to go back to Lothering, and then you came along with your grand ideas and your sly words and your _stories_ and I just--" She stopped, staring at him. He stared back.

"Hawke… why are you shouting at me?" he eventually asked, his tone soft.

Hawke scrubbed both of her hands over her face. "I don't know," she mumbled into her palms. "But I'm crying now, and I think that's all your fault, too." She felt his presence beside her and his hands on her arms. He stroked her hair, gently, before his arm went around her shoulders and he tugged her close. 

Finally, she thought, finally he was touching her, and not like he thought she wasn't real. He'd said he loved her. Varric, of the mysterious 'one story I'll never tell' and the crossbow called Bianca, he said he loved _her_ , Hawke, the one he happily told all the wildest tales about. Her stomach clenched at the thought he might have said it just because he was glad she was still alive. "Varric, do you really--"

"Yeah, I do," he interrupted with a grin, swiping the tears from her cheek with his thumb. 

"I mean, you don't have to lie if you don't," Hawke persisted, unable to meet his gaze. "I'm a big girl, I know you're just happy I'm alive--"

"Hawke. Hey, look at me." He looked more tired than she ever remembered seeing, his cultivated roguish scruffiness replaced with genuine dishevelment. There were lines around his eyes Hawke didn't remember, and a new scar across his nose. But his eyes were everything she remembered. "It might have taken me thinking you were dead to realise how stupid I've been about you, but I wouldn't lie to you about this. Believe me." 

And she did. Andraste help her, she did, she couldn't doubt him. Her returning smile was a bit squiggly, but she couldn't help that. Not when he looked so pleased just to see it. He kissed her then - _finally_ \- and she curled her fingers around the lapels of his duster, as familiar a movement to her as breathing.

Eventually he pulled back. "You feel up to seeing some of Haven?" he asked. The sly, playful look in his eyes was everything Hawke remembered, too.

"Maybe," Hawke said suspiciously.

Varric's grin widened. "Good. I've got some friends I'd like you to meet. You're going to _love_ Seeker Pentaghast."


End file.
